


Inlay

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Boot Worship, Collars, Dominance, Established Relationship, Ficlet, Light Bondage, M/M, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5438747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lindir keeps his lord company, needing no reward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inlay

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “One thing I never see enough of is gentle domination and I'd love to see it with Elrondir. Basically, with Lindir (Or Elrond, to switch it up if a filler should wish) enjoying submission but doesn't really like pain such as spanking or rough play. Just things like kneeling, restraint, commanding ect. +Infinity love for boot licking kink” prompt on [the Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=26325762#t26325762).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or The Lord of the Rings any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

Lindir derives satisfaction from nearly every way he serves his lord, from idly sweeping the halls to neatly rearranging the pantry, but this, in its simple elegance, might be his _favourite_. It’s more private than his other duties, _intimate_ , something no other servant has the honour of. Lindir kneels beneath his lord’s desk, sitting quietly at his lord’s feet, while Elrond writes letters. 

Lindir’s been sitting still for hours, tucked, every so slightly, between Elrond’s legs, Elrond’s robes bunched back around his waist and the trousers below smoothed over his thighs from Lindir’s cheeks resting on them. Lindir lies there now, his face cushioned against the silken fabric, his long hair cascading over his lord’s knee. The steady scratch of Elrond’s quill above is something like a lullaby. Lindir could almost drift off. But he savours this too much and struggles for consciousness. He wants to be blissfully aware of every second he spends kneeling between his master’s legs. He cherishes every moment he spends with Elrond.

After some time, when the light has gone from orange to dark blue, creeping in from the balcony around the edges of the desk, Elrond’s free hand drops to Lindir’s head. Lindir’s breath hitches, chest swelling with delight. He _adores_ Elrond. Lindir loves serving him, loves _submitting_ to him, and Elrond is the best master Lindir’s ever had. And the best lover. The best everything. This attention could make him sing, but he keeps his lips sealed; that’s for another day. He lets his eyes fall closed and concentrates on the feeling of Elrond’s long, warm fingers threading through his hair, stroking absently across his skull. Elrond pets him like one might an animal, and Lindir enjoys every brush. He fights to stay quiet, still, but he gives in here and there to whimper small, keen noises, and his hands, wrapped loosely around Elrond’s legs, tighten against the leathery boot. It’s a struggle not to wantonly hump Elrond’s foot.

He can’t; he’d get a mess there. He’s naked, save for the metal collar around his neck and the intricate cuffs adoring his wrists, each artfully designed like the circlet he usually wears. They were gifts from his lord, made just for him. They all bear small clips, fastening mechanisms so they can easily be bound to one another. Nothing else covers Lindir’s pale body from his master, though Elrond remains fully clothed. It’s just another dynamic of _power_ that makes Lindir shiver in longing. He leans into Elrond’s hand, desperate for each touch.

When he can take it no more, he presses forward, nuzzling his face into Elrond’s crotch. He buries his nose in the familiar bulge, large even when flaccid, though Lindir can feel some of the stiffness. He inhales deeply, growing heady from the raw scent, and squirms against it, until Elrond tugs him back by the rear of his collar. Lindir whines but obediently pulls away. Elrond guides him down again, and Lindir returns his cheek to his master’s thigh, his gaze fixed forward and his breathing laboured. He wants Elrond _so much_. Sometimes it’s difficult to function. But Lindir is nothing if not subservient, and he remains still while Elrond bends forward, reaching down behind him. His wrists are pushed together, and Lindir submissively clicks them into place, sliding the lock closed. It effectively binds his hands: a light but fair punishment. Lindir then stays where he’s put, infinitely pleased when Elrond resumes petting him. 

The letter-writing goes on. A few times, when Elrond seems to pause in thought, he tugs lightly at Lindir’s hair, eliciting sharp gasps and needy moans. Other times, it’s just brushed back, and here and there, he’s scratched behind his ears. He grows harder at every sweet caress. But he wouldn’t touch himself even if he could. He exists for his lord’s pleasure, constrained to his lord’s feet, and he _belongs there._

By the time Elrond finishes, night has fallen: the light is only of the stars, and the minstrels outside have stopped playing. Lindir’s chin is lifted from Elrond’s thigh and cradled while Elrond’s chair scrapes back. Then Elrond gets to his feet, and Lindir straightens, looking up from beneath the desk at Elrond’s full magnificence. Lindir would stay right here, bound and possessed, for _days_ if his master wished it. 

But Elrond is kind. He bends down again to unclasp Lindir’s hands, freeing them, and Lindir brings them around to his front. He gets to hands and knees like the beast he is and waits for his orders. 

“It has been a long day,” Elrond sighs. He sounds tired, as he often does, and Lindir looks up, ready to offer a massage. But Elrond rolls simply on, “You have been very good, my Lindir, and still for so long. Perhaps you require exercise.”

Lindir flushes with the compliment, burning bright with _pride_ ; he wishes nothing but to be good for Elrond. He breathes reverently, “I would love that, my lord.” He would love anything Elrond offered him. But he knows what ‘exercise’ implies, and he wants that most of all. 

A knowing smile sidles onto Elrond’s handsome face. He looks so _young_ in these moments, almost playful in his maturity, though he disparages himself for his age too often. He muses aloud, “I would take you for a walk, but I fear I am not clean enough to leave my quarters; I have not had my attendant prepare my clothes as he so often does.” 

Lindir has to fight not to smile back at the soft teasing. He’s that attendant, and he’s been understandably busy. But he’s still made sure that his lord’s clothes are pristine; he laid them out this morning. 

Yet Lindir acts as though they’re dirty. He crawls one step forward and bends to the floor, brushing a kiss over Elrond’s nearest boost. Then he snakes his tongue out to clean it. He laps hard across the shining surface, tongue flattened to the dark material—he spares nothing in his worship of his lord. He licks up from toe to ankle, then slides back and gives another, a little to the side. He works his way down to the sole and tastes the length of it, toe to heel, half wishing Elrond would lift his foot so Lindir could lick the underside and show just how devoted he is.

Elrond keeps his foot on the ground, and Lindir licks all around it, heedless of the pungent taste. He stops on occasion to place firm kisses. When the first boot is glistening wetly, completely licked clean, Lindir shifts to give the other the same treatment. He can hear that Elrond’s breathing has become heavier, and it only encourages him. He licks and licks at Elrond’s boot as surely as he would Elrond’s cock, unable to stop, until Elrond murmurs, “ _Lindir._ ”

Then Lindir halts, his tongue still out, and he looks eagerly up. Elrond gives no further orders, so Lindir gives one final, wide, open-mouthed kiss to the dark material, then lifts slowly back to hands and knees and bows his head. 

Elrond, deep voice wondrously husky now, asks, “How would you like to be played with?”

Lindir shivers and thinks of many things. He wants Elrond’s cock in his mouth. He wants to suck it, to taste it and swallow as much of his lord’s seed as he can. He also wants to lick his master’s boots, wanton and needy, and hump the floor until he comes; he wants to demonstrate just how much even the suggestion of his lord arouses him. He wants to be kissed. He wants to be tied from head to foot and used like a toy. He wants to be made love to on the bed, and he wants to be pulled by his hair and fucked hard against the wall. He wants Elrond to tie him and jerk off on his face and let him lick the remnants off the floor. But finally he asks, begs, “ _Fill me._ ” He would do anything his lord wished, but he always wants _that_ most of all. 

Elrond commands him, “Climb onto my bed, Lindir.” 

Lindir crawls instantly to obey. There he spreads his legs and watches rapturously as his lord descends on him, beautiful and _everything_ Lindir’s ever wanted.


End file.
